


A Man of Action

by ComplicatedLight, wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1604267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a past, including DI Alan Peterson . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Action

**Author's Note:**

> Rated teen and up from some moderate violence.
> 
> Many thanks to our excellent beta reader, [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp)

Peterson slips his dinner jacket on and checks the pockets for the necessities for the evening: wallet, car keys, breath mints, condoms. Not that he’s thinking he’ll get lucky with Jean Innocent, whom he’s accompanying to the Marston College Charity Ball tonight, attractive woman though she is. For one thing, she’s married, and in any case, she appears to be immune to his flirtatious charms. He smiles to himself. Sensible woman. Perhaps in part because of that fact, she’s an interesting woman, and the power—such as it is—in the Oxfordshire Constabulary, lies with her, so becoming useful to her—even if he’s not going to be lying with her—makes sense. It’s just what he does. Well, did. 

He regards his reflection coolly in the full-length mirror in his bedroom, appraising. He reties his bow tie, adjusts his cufflinks, and then flashes himself a wolfish grin. Three things occur to him:  
1\. That he can see why Innocent asked him to the ball rather than Robbie ‘wrinkles are my trademark’ Lewis.  
2\. That he’s not going to have any trouble finding someone to help him out with those condoms.  
3\. And not for the first time of course, that his many talents are completely wasted in this job.

Not that he’s downhearted, though—could be a fun night, one way or another. Undemanding, but fun. He heads out, automatically switching on his smarmy ‘Peterson’ face as the door clicks shut behind him.

An hour later and he isn’t feeling quite so buoyant. Jean Innocent appears to have been led to believe that he’s a ballroom dancing champion (who the hell told her that, he’s not quite sure, though he has his suspicions). She has not felt the need to disguise her annoyance at his inability to do anything other than waltz in a straight line (as it happens, ballroom dancing is one of the few physical activities he’s unable to do with a cool efficiency). They’re currently standing by the bar: she’s irritably rummaging in her handbag for her migraine tablets, and his teeth ache from the effort of trying to keep smiling. It’s going to be a long night.

He’s just about to order more drinks when Jean’s phone rings. Without acknowledging his presence, she answers. “Innocent.” 

Three seconds later, her irritation’s vanished, replaced by tension. She snaps, “Keep me updated,” then ends the call.

Clearly a problem—and, of course, problems can present opportunities. “Ma’am?”

Innocent’s gaze refocuses on him. He can’t escape the sensation that she’d forgotten his presence—and that’s even less flattering than her opinion of his dancing. “I have to get back to the nick.”

“Of course. I’ll get the car. Is this something I can help with, Ma’am?”

She hesitates—also not flattering—and then comes to a decision. “Apparently, Sergeant Hathaway made a call for urgent backup five minutes ago, but the call was cut off before he could give his location. Now, neither he nor Lewis are answering their phones.”

Peterson nods, assuming an expression he knows is of deep concern. Inside, he feels a pulse of adrenalin through his body, yanking him out of months of what has felt like sleepwalking. He rapidly weighs the potential rewards and risks of . . . involvement. On the plus side—the chance to rescue that over-promoted Geordie, Robbie Lewis, and his smug, Latin-quoting sidekick (and wouldn’t that be sweet?), to come to the aid of an attractive, powerful woman, and the possibility of a bit of real—if relatively minor—danger. That’s not a bad way to spend a Friday night. He’s got to be careful, though—the risk is that he gets carried away—is too . . . capable—and blows his carefully constructed cover. He needs to buy himself a little more time to plan his strategy. Because, of course, really there’s no way in hell he’s not going to do this. It’s just a question of how to work it to his advantage.

He takes Jean Innocent’s arm and begins steering her through the throng towards the door. “We’ll be at the nick in less than ten minutes with blues and twos. Is anyone tracing their phones? Do you know what they were working on?”

* * *

“This is a fine mess you’ve got me into,” Robbie would like to say to his smug-bastard sergeant. The fact that he can’t, though, is also all Hathaway’s fault. Well, maybe mostly Hathaway’s fault. They’re his handcuffs, after all—but James’s socks.

He should have expected that something would go wrong. The investigation was going very well. Too well. Clues left at the crime scene led them straight to a bookie’s in Cowley, and to Mick Lawson, assistant manager. There were also fingerprints at the scene, which Robbie is certain will be a perfect match for Lawson. However, his fingerprints aren’t on the PNC, which brings them to this house, in an unsavoury street close to Blackbird Leys. All they had to do was get inside with some excuse about questions they needed to ask, and in doing so obtain Lawson’s prints. Not a problem. James, as he’s shown many times, is an expert at obtaining fingerprints without the suspect’s knowledge.

On reflection, they should have just brought Lawson in for questioning, given that they do have the circumstantial evidence. Instead, they’d knocked at the door, only to discover when Lawson opened it that two accomplices were standing directly behind them. The guns between their shoulder blades were a dead giveaway.

Now, they’re cuffed back to back on the floor in an empty upstairs room of this disgusting house, guns trained on them by Lawson’s bullyboys. No prizes for guessing their intended fate, either. Lawson’s getting ready to clear out; he’s somewhere else in the house, probably grabbing everything he doesn’t want to leave behind. 

A fine mess this is, all right. They can’t talk, thanks to a few smartarse remarks from James about the intellect of their guards as soon as they’d been cuffed. They can’t even signal to each other through facial expressions. Mind, this is an effective way of shutting the bloke up, all right. If they manage to get out of this alive, Robbie’ll remember it. Who knew a sock could be so versatile?

Though he’s almost certain that their chances of getting out alive are slim. Lawson’s not going to want to leave them behind as witnesses, or to come after him. The bastard’s already killed at least once. Why should two more bodies make a difference? The vicious light in Lawson’s eyes made it clear that he’d have no compunction about bumping off a couple of coppers if it suited his purpose. 

Behind him, James’s fingers brush his. Robbie snorts silently; it’s a shame neither of them knows sign language.

* * *

By the time Peterson and Innocent have reached the car, his decisions are made. “Ma’am?”

She turns towards him, a withering look on her face. Her mouth’s already open to question what he could possibly have to say that’s worth delaying their return to the nick. She looks at him, and he can see the words dying on her tongue. It’s still Peterson standing before her of course, and yet, he’s well aware, he is somehow . . . transformed. His face has sharpened; the look in his eyes is steely, dangerous. He appears bigger, more substantial. He’s just . . . more. (Which, of course, he has been all along; he’s just very good at disguising himself).

“I’ll find them, Ma’am.”

And it’s a testament to Jean Innocent’s own strength of character and experience that she is able so rapidly to adjust to this new view of Peterson, and to regard him steadily. Many before—male and female alike—when faced with this brutally efficient version of him, have either simpered like schoolgirls, or, as has happened on several occasions—the memories of which Peterson still plays through his mind in particularly dull work briefings—wet themselves. She reminds him of another formidable female boss, from another time. 

But this is not the time to be reminiscing—there’s a pair of distressed damsels in cheap suits to be rescued, and if he’s really lucky, the opportunity for a good old-fashioned punch-up with the cream of Oxford’s underworld.

Jean looks him in the eye for several long, evaluative seconds, and then gives him a sharp nod. “Well, what are you waiting for, Peterson?” She emphasises his name, as if to say if that’s who you are. “We’ve got a job to do.”

As he drives them at exhilaratingly high speed through the night streets of Oxford, he quizzes her on the case Robbie and James have been working on, and when they skid spectacularly to a halt in the station car park, he’s on the phone to one of the DCs who’s been working with the dynamic duo over the last couple of days, filling in the gaps in his knowledge.

They stride through the main entrance and down the corridor towards the meeting room where the team he’s pulled together in the last six minutes is gathering to be briefed. As soon as he’s through the door Peterson starts issuing orders—a search of Robbie and James’s desks and computers to figure out exactly what they were doing still working on a Friday evening; organising firearms via a call to ART, and everything else the team will need for a high-risk raid, if it comes to that. He stands at one end of the room, radiating a kind of mesmerising competence, and the assembled officers drop into stunned, immobile silence, caught in their collective inability to make sense of what the hell is going on—of the extraordinary change in DI Peterson. 

He unties his bow tie, leaving it to hang round his neck, and loosens the top two buttons of his shirt. He’s unfazed by the assembled officers staring at him, dumbfounded, but he raises an eyebrow and indicates that now would be a good time for them to get on with it. Finally—after a couple of seconds’ delay—they burst into action.

Ten minutes later, word comes through from the tech guys that James’s call has been traced—that they can pinpoint it to Walton Street on the outskirts of Blackbird Leys. So now they know exactly which suspect Robbie and James were paying a visit to: Mick Lawson. But it’s also now apparent that Mr Lawson has some very unsavoury acquaintances, several of whom have previous for firearms offences, and that puts a particular slant on things: they can’t just go in through the front door, all guns blazing. If Lawson and his cronies have got Lewis and Hathaway, and they’re incapacitated as is more than likely, they won’t last two minutes if bullets start flying. No, Peterson’s going to have to think of a much stealthier way, to resolve this—and that suits him just fine.

* * *

They park at the end of Walton Street and he does a recce on foot, his sergeant a couple of steps behind. There’s an alleyway at the back of the house and they ghost their way—in the shadow of a brick wall—towards the back yard of number 10. He can see that there’s a top floor window open at the back of the crumbling three-storey house, so that’s it, then—no need to waste time considering other options. 

They silently make their way back to where Jean and the rest of the team—armed and bulky in their Kevlar vests—are waiting. Peterson quickly outlines his plan. He intends to climb up the dead pine tree in the back yard, drop onto the garage roof (he assumes it’ll take his weight), crawl across to where the garage joins the house, and then shin up the drainpipe to the window. He’ll then slip in through the window and ‘deal’ with whatever situation he finds inside. On his own. The rest of the team will wait outside until they hear firearms being discharged inside the house, or (much more likely, in his opinion) until he lets them in through the front door. He’s not taking a gun himself; apart from the danger of hitting the wrong person if there’s shooting at close quarters, he finds other combat methods far more enjoyable.

He stands with apparent nonchalance, hands in pockets, waiting for Jean Innocent’s response. There’s a bit of nervous fidgeting amongst the other officers, a few audible in-breaths, but no one says a word.

* * *

Of course, it’s the most outrageous plan that Jean has ever heard, and she’s heard some classics in her time. Apart from the fact that it contravenes at least twenty different police regulations, it’s risky, highly unlikely to work, has a high chance of ending in fatalities, and is the product of the worst kind of macho, egotistical bullshit. It’s basically straight out of a James Bond film. Oh. The realisation slams into her like a tsunami. Oh, my God. She presses her right thumb into the frown line between her eyes for a couple of seconds, massaging the aching muscle there. She stares at him, then glances round at the rest of team—who are silently waiting for her response—and then turns back to him again. 

“You’re a . . . You used to be . . . ”

He shrugs, smiles a secretive, complicated smile and, briefly glancing at the assembled team, says:

“What I _am_ is certain that you shouldn’t worry yourself, Ma’am. I can be very . . . resourceful.”

And God help her—looking at him right now—his focus so sharp it could cut steel, brimming with dangerous energy—Jean doesn’t doubt it for a second.

So she gives him the go-ahead. Just like that. No questions, no warnings, no nothing. If he messes this up, in all likelihood Lewis and Hathaway will die, as will Peterson himself. And she, of course, on top of losing good colleagues and friends, will lose her job and her reputation. She might even end up in prison, guilty of manslaughter due to professional negligence. And yet she doesn’t hesitate for a moment. She just nods. And trusts—even though part of her feels as if she’s trusting a rattlesnake.

* * *

The energy in the team is electric, but there’s no dissent—they’re as convinced as she is. They don’t know exactly what’s going on with the DI, but if it involved bats or radioactive spiders they honestly wouldn’t be surprised. He has a last briefing with them, which really just consists of him telling them to keep out of his way and let him do the job, and then he turns and strolls back up the alley, dinner jacket flapping a little in the light breeze that’s picked up, cufflinks glinting in the moonlight. With a kind of rugged grace, he vaults up and over the back yard wall as if it were three foot high instead of six, and drops silently down into the yard. He’s working on his own now—which is exactly how he likes it.

And, of course, what he likes even more is that, after this evening, it won’t be Lewis and Hathaway who are the blue-eyed boys, the heroes of the hour. Far from it—and, even better, they’ll owe their rescue to him. Action Man, they called him. If only they could have known. 

For what tonight’s little operation is going to net him—in kudos, in schadenfreude, in credit with the boss—it’s well worth blowing his cover in front of Innocent. And it will only be in front of her; a shrewd woman like Jean Innocent knows only too well the value of protecting this kind of secret.

He eyes the drainpipe, instantly gauging its capacity to carry his weight and the speed at which he’ll need to climb it, and begins his ascent.

* * *

“Mmfff!”

Robbie jabs his elbow into Hathaway’s side again, only to be greeted by another grunt and, this time, a return jab. Good. He wriggles, shifting around on the uncomfortable floor, at the same time spelling out a word, one letter at a time, on the back of James’s hand. Who needs sign language?

D... E... C...O... Y

James’s index finger spells out okay against his own hand. Good. He shoves back against the bloke again, and James grunts louder.

“Oi! Shut it, you.” One of the thugs shifts from his position leaning against the wall—from where he’s had a clear view of the window, if he’d happened to look in that direction—and comes over to stand next to James. “Not another sound outta you.” He swipes the side of James’s head with his gun, and Robbie winces. He hadn’t intended that to happen.

“And you!” the thug continues, turning his attention to Robbie. “Stop fidgeting, or you’ll get the same. I don’t care if you need to piss. Go where you are—‘s not as if this place could smell any worse.” He laughs raucously.

Robbie ignores him. He wriggles his hand behind his back until he can grip a couple of James’s fingers in his, then gives a reassuring squeeze, hoping that his sergeant isn’t badly hurt, and trying to convey a smidgen of hope. He’s just seen it again, the thing that made him need to cause the distraction in the first place: a movement just outside the window. It could be nothing. Could be a bird, or a tree-branch—but his gut is telling him there’s someone out there. And he didn’t want Tweedledum and Tweedledee noticing.

The door to the room’s shoved open then, and Lawson pokes his head inside. “Time to go.”

“Right, boss. Want me to take care of these two first?” Tweedledum kicks Robbie’s thigh and points the gun at him.

“Nah. Don’t want forensics finding bullets.” Lawson jerks his head towards the door. “Lock this behind you. Soon as we’re out, a match through the letterbox will take care of this place—and them.”

Robbie feels his blood run cold, and James’s hand grips his tight enough to leave bruises. Shit. Bloody fucking hell. So this is it. He doesn’t know what he’ll be able to do to protect James, to keep him from the flames this time. His mind goes back to that other time, when he’d hauled James out of Zoe Kenneth’s blazing house, risking his life without hesitation. He would do it again in an instant, if he could just think of a way. Maybe, once those bastards have left the room, he and James can find some hard edge—a brick or a piece of stonework—and try and smash the handcuffs against it, though even as he’s thinking it he knows it’ll never work. Maybe they’d survive the fall if they threw themselves out the window? He starts working in earnest on loosening his gag, moving his mouth and nose around again and again, feeling the makeshift contraption shift, bit by bit. 

With a final, moan-inducing kick to James’s leg, Lawson and his two gun-toting cronies leave the room. As soon as Robbie hears the lock click and their footsteps recede, he manages to spit out his gag and takes charge.

“James, we’ve got to get to our feet right now. We need to see what the fall looks like if we have to go out the window.” He feels sick just saying it, picturing broken legs or worse, but James makes noises of agreement, so Robbie carries on.

“We can’t risk breaking the window yet because they’ll hear the glass smash and be back up here in an instant. We need to move quickly and quietly.”

As he’s saying the word “quietly”, there’s a flash of movement outside the bedroom window. He just has time to warn James with an barely coherent shout of “Window! Duck!” before the air is filled with the sound of shattering glass, and they’re showered with piercing splinters. The only thing they can do is keep heads down and eyes closed while glass rains down on them.

“Evening, gents.”

Robbie opens his eyes to the sight of Alan Peterson, in a dinner jacket, standing three feet from the window he’s just burst through, grinning and seemingly oblivious to the trickles of blood running from his right ear and from both hands. James—who all this time has been facing away from the window—is making muffled noises of frustration through his gag, clearly desperate to understand what the hell is going on. Robbie opens his mouth to speak, but Peterson interjects.

“You boys might want to shuffle over to that corner, because I think things are just about to get lively”—a turn of events about which he looks very pleased.

He’s cut off by the sound of footsteps hammering up the stairs. Robbie just manages to get out the words “they’re armed!” and see Peterson’s answering wink, before the key is turned in the lock and the door bursts open.

Peterson has plastered himself against the wall adjacent to the door. As the first gunman takes a step into the room, Peterson punches him in the jaw with such force that blood and teeth fly out of his mouth—and the gun shoots out of his hand and slithers across the bare floorboards, coming to a halt amongst the piles of glass shards by the far wall. The gunman falls sideways and lands with his bloody head next to James’s feet. The gunman’s groaning but not out of the game, so James and Robbie coordinate their efforts as best they can to launch themselves on top of him in an attempt to use their combined weight to pin him down. The fact that they’re cuffed together back-to-back, and the one with the view of what’s going on is gagged with his own sock, doesn’t make their task any easier.

As this rather undignified scuffle is playing out, the second gun appears round the door. Peterson grabs the hand and wrist supporting the gun and snaps them back hard against the wooden doorframe. There’s a sickening crack as the wrist—rather than the frame—gives way. The gunman bellows in agony, then passes out cold, dropping in a heap across the doorway. His gun falls from his hand, and Peterson kicks it across the room to join the other one.

Robbie and James have been doing a valiant job trying to keep their thug under control, but the whole bound and gagged thing is severely hampering their efforts. They suddenly lose the battle and the bastard rolls out from under them. They end up in a chaotic, eight-limbed pile, unable to do anything but swear, and James can’t even do that effectively. Their assailant staggers to his feet, roaring a stream of threats. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t even manage to stand upright before Peterson’s right fist, firmly—and some would say cruelly—applied to his jaw once again, finally defeats him. He slams against the wall nearest to him with extraordinary force, and slides down said wall in classic cartoon fashion.

Robbie and James manage to right themselves in time to watch Peterson shake out his punching hand, and smooth his hair back in place. He turns towards them, looking smug even by his standards, He nods in their direction, but makes no move to release them.

“Robbie, James—good to see you. Looks like you’ve got yourselves into a spot of bother.”

He’s now standing with his hands in his pockets, looking maddeningly at ease, clearly enjoying every bloody second of their predicament. And although he should be grateful to Peterson for beating off their assailants, Robbie is finding it hard to express gratitude. In fact, all of Robbie’s fear and frustration from the last hour has—at the sight of Action Man grinning down at him—transformed into anger. What the hell’s he doing bloody standing around posturing instead of behaving like a copper?

“For god’s sake, stop messing about and get us out of this.” He shakes their handcuffed wrists at him as best he can. The shaking causes moans of discomfort from James.

“Now then, Robbie. Careful. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Robbie growls and is just about to launch into a furious tirade when they hear footsteps coming up the stairs: Lawson. Peterson turns away from Robbie and James and stands facing the doorway. This time, Robbie has a decent view, and sees Lawson appearing, a short, sturdy-looking knife in one hand. 

Lawson surveys the chaos and destruction in the room while Peterson looks him up and down. Peterson obviously isn’t impressed by what he sees, as he doesn’t even bother taking his hands out of his pockets. Robbie just hopes that Peterson’s ego isn’t over-ruling his common sense, or he’ll get them all killed.

“Mr Lawson, I presume.” 

Lawson drags his eyes away from his unconscious, bleeding henchmen. He swallows, looking visibly paler than he had ten seconds ago. He glares at Peterson.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Right now, exactly the person you least want to see, Mr Lawson,” Peterson says pleasantly. “Though I’ll offer you a choice. You can try to emulate your associates, though I can guarantee you the same fate as theirs. Or you can cooperate. Give me your knife, undo the handcuffs restraining my colleagues, and let them arrest you.” Peterson smiles, a picture of amiability that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know what I’d prefer, but it is completely up to you.”

“Bollocks to that!” Lawson lunges at Peterson, knife at the ready. James attempts a dive to stop him, but only succeeds in almost wrenching Robbie’s arms out of their sockets.

“Ow! Careful!”

Two sharp, loud sounds that Robbie can’t identify, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a body crumpling to the floor; then Peterson speaks again. “I did warn you, Mr Lawson.” Peterson strolls over to James and Robbie, and the smug grin on his face as he stands, legs slightly apart and hands in his pockets, makes Robbie wish he could trip the bloke up. “Would I be right in assuming that he’s got your keys?”

* * *

Half an hour later, Robbie stands beside an ambulance while James receives treatment for the bruising and minor cuts on the side of his head. They’ve both been checked over and declared not to be in need of hospital treatment, though they’ll each have badly-bruised and painful wrists for several days.

The small terraced house is a hive of activity, with several marked squad cars parked outside in addition to a couple of unmarked vehicles. Uniforms and CID swarm the area, and SOCO rush in and out. Robbie has no doubt that any evidence that might possibly be here, linking Lawson to the original murder, for will be found. And, of course, whether or not they can tie Lawson to the murder or get a confession, they’ve certainly got him on unlawful imprisonment of police officers and uttering death threats, as well as several other charges.

It was so nearly so much worse. He and James could be burnt to a crisp right now. Yet, while he’s very glad that they’re not, it sticks in his craw that the reason they’re not is Alan bloody Peterson. And Peterson himself is clearly basking in being the hero of the hour, directing operations from the tiny front garden.

As Robbie waits for the paramedics to be done with James, he looks at the house again and shakes his head. He still can’t quite work out how Peterson did it. Well, he knows what the uniformed officers told him—In nauseatingly awe-tinged whispers—that Action Man hopped over the back wall, crawled up a wobbly drainpipe, and then somehow swung himself round on it like Olga Korbut in a penguin suit, to get enough momentum to burst in through the window. But, Christ, that’s not a manoeuvre they teach you on the inspector’s course! 

He’s too tired and his wrists hurt too much to make sense of it right now. He needs to give it some more thought once his head is a little clearer. What he is clear about though is that Action Man (and how bloody apt is that name?) will be insufferable after this. As if he isn’t smug enough already. Robbie groans at the thought.

“Sir? Are you all right?” James shoots him a worried look.

“I’m okay. Just thinking about our esteemed colleague’s antics tonight. There’s something about all this that doesn’t add up. What the hell was he doing coming in on his own? And where did he learn unarmed combat like that? And why wouldn’t Innocent tell me anything when I asked her? Bloody odd.”

They both look over to the front garden of the house, and watch Peterson organising the search of the crime scene, all evening suit and easy charm. He’s also being watched by Jean Innocent, who has taken herself off to one side of the garden, on her own, and who’s been having a very animated phone conversation for the last twenty minutes.

“There is something different about him tonight,” James murmurs, leaning close to Robbie to ensure they’re not overheard. “Remember I said he’d be the next Chief Constable? Scratch that. More like Spymaster General.”

* * *

Peterson looks up from the box he’s packing at the light tap on his office door. It’s the boss—Jean Innocent. “Ma’am.” He gives her one of his faintly-troubled smiles, designed to indicate that he’s at her service, despite being extremely disappointed in her. After all, she could be here to apologise and beg him to forget what’s transpired since last night.

“Peterson.” Her tone’s smooth, matter-of-fact. No regret there whatsoever. Nor, he notes, is there any gratitude for the enormous service he provided her last night. “I just came to let you know that DI Lewis will be taking over most of your active cases for now. The others have been reassigned to DI Dearden.” She hands over a sheet of paper. “Here’s the list. Perhaps you would see that the right files get to the right teams.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He takes the list, giving Innocent a charming smile of compliance. Inside, he’s fuming. Lewis again. That bumbling clown who should have been pensioned off years ago, and that egotistical sergeant of his. Oh, Jean Innocent knows how to rub it in.

He should have left Laurel and Hardy to their fate, instead of choosing to show off. Yes, he’d succeeded, but retribution had been swift and final. Before the night had ended, Innocent had made a call to a certain division of the Home Office, which had resulted in a short, sharp phone conversation between himself and his former handler.

Outcome: transfer—to Wales, of all places. And strict instructions never to do anything again that put his former identity or profession at risk of exposure. Next time, his handler promised, it would be Chechnya. Or Afghanistan. The more he thinks about it, the more furious he is. Innocent should be bloody hailing him as a hero, not getting him exiled to the arse end of nowhere.

Innocent nods, and turns to leave; as she does so, she says coolly, “Goodbye, Alan.”

“Pleasure working with you, ma’am,” he replies, but she’s already gone.

* * *

“To 00Peterson.” James raises his glass in Lewis’s direction; with a grin, Lewis clinks their glasses together.

“You don’t know that’s who he was.” But Lewis is smirking, and James knows that he knows more than he’s saying.

“That’s the conspiracy theory going around the nick,” James says, and takes a drag of his cigarette. “That he was kicked out of the Secret Service due to some indiscretion or other, and now that he’s been indiscreet again he’s been kicked out of the Force.” It was probably only a matter of time, too; James is convinced of that. Judging by the way Peterson was strutting around last night, like the cock of the walk, his ego’s far in excess of his judgement. Praecedit superbia ante ruinam... oh, the inevitability of pride and falls. 

“The imaginations some people have.” Lewis’s lips are twitching, and James starts plotting to arrange Lewis’s favourite takeaway back at his flat later. That’s the best way to get his boss to be a bit less discreet.

“I take back what I said last night, at any rate.” James stubs out his cigarette and grins at his boss. “Not Spymaster General. Austin Powers.”

Lewis laughs so much he almost falls off his chair. “Finish that, man. Takeaway at mine, an’ I might even put on a James Bond film.”

James drains his pint. “Excellent, just the thing for unwinding after a rough day at the office.”

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me—you want your martini shaken, not stirred?”

“Is there any other way?”


End file.
